_mon grand cheri_' before the salad, and '_mon p'tit
amour_' before the green mint. Maybe _that'll_ buck you up! And I'd
have you know that she's so pretty that it's ridiculous, with black
velvet hair that she wears like a little Oriental turban, and eyes
like golden pansies, and a mouth between a kiss and a prayer--and a
nice affable nature into the bargain. But I'm a ghastly jackass--I
didn't get any fun out of it at all--because I really didn't even
see her. Under the pink shaded candles to my blind eyes it seemed
that there was seated the coolest, quietest, whitest little thing,
with eyes that were as indifferent as my velvety Liane's were kind,
and mockery in her smile. Oh, little masquerader! If I could get
my arms about you even for a minute--if I could kiss so much as
the tips of your lashes--would you be cool and quiet and mocking
then? Janie, Janie, rosy-red as flowers on the terrace and
sweeter--sweeter--they're about you now--they'll be about you always!"

Burn it fast, candle--faster, faster. Here's another for you.

"So the other fellow cured you of using pretty names, did he--you
don't care much for dear and darling any more? Bit hard on me,
but fortunately for you, Janie Janet, I'm rather a dab at
languages--'specially when it comes to what the late lamented Boche
referred to as 'cosy names.' _Querida mi alma, douchka, Herzliebchen,
carissima_; and _bien, bien-aimee_, I'll not run out of salutations
for you this side of heaven--no--nor t'other. I adore the serene
grace with which you ignore the ravishing Liane. Haven't you any
curiosity at all, my Sphinx? No? Well, then, just to punish you,
I'll tell you all about it. She's married to the best fellow in the
world--a _liaison_ officer working with our squadron--and she
worships the ground that he walks on and the air that he occasionally
flies in. So whenever I run up to the City of Light, _en permission_,
I look her up, and take her the latest news--and for an hour, over
the candles, we pretend that I am Philippe, and that she is Janie.
Only she says that I don't pretend very well--and it's just possible
that she's right.

"_Mon petit coeur et grand tresor_, I wish that I could take you
flying with me this evening. You'd be daft about it! Lots of it's a
rotten bore, of course, but there's something in me that doesn't
live at all when I'm on this too, too solid earth. Something that
lies there, crouched and dormant, waiting until I've climbed up into